Careering Off - A Negative Jobseeker's Guide

I know this might sound a bit negative, but I reckon we could save a lot of time helping job seekers if, instead of asking them what they would ‘like’ to do, we just cut to the chase and asked them what they would ‘hate’ to do.

For example, I was recently helping a young friend put his Resume together. I started off asking him questions about what he really liked doing. This was met mostly with a lot of shrugging, blank staring and ‘I dunno’ ing. Clearly, I was getting nowhere, so I decided to change tactic.

“Okay” I said, “Tell me about the subjects you hated most at school, starting with the yuckiest.”

His face lit up and he rattled of a litany of despised tasks before eventually working his way back to the things he actually liked doing. Finally, with a bit more probing, we came up with a bunch of possible areas in which he might excel in the future.

What started as a plunge into the murky pool of negativity ended up on a very positive note! The Resume was a success and I’m happy to report the young man is now happily employed in an area that suits him.

This experience got me thinking about careers that wouldn’t work for me.

Some examples and the reasons I would be unsuitable for these roles are:

Brain Surgeon: No good with squishy things and useless with drills.

Mathematics Teacher: Number challenged. Likely to ask things like “What is the square root of 1356?” only to respond with an astonished “Really?” when correct answer is supplied by 5th Grader.

Airline Pilot: Dodgy sense of direction. Could be heard announcing: “Ladies and gentleman, I know we all thought we were heading to Hawaii, but I …um…kinda misread the coordinates and instead we will soon be landing in down-town Beirut. Look, I know it’s not quite the holiday you had planned, but there’s still a fair bit of sand about!”

Lead guitarist in a heavy metal band: Guitar ability limited to 6 chords, scared of tattoos and not sure if paracetamol counts as a recreational drug.

Bus or truck driver: Whole buildings, footpaths and pedestrians could go missing due to my inability to judge correct corner-turning allowance.

Football commentator: Might get distracted and say things like, “And the cute one with the nice thighs handballs to the Adonis with the pecs!” While I’m sure many girls would love it, the die-hard footy fans might lynch me.

Chef: Suffice to say, I’m sure there would be many people willing to testify that this is not, nor ever should be, the career for me.

These are just a few of the things I’d be really bad at and I now realise why we don’t normally start the resume writing process from the negative position. It’s so depressing!

I can just imagine our hapless jobseeker after undergoing this process:

Prospective employer: “And what skills would you bring to this role, Bill?”

Bill: “Dunno, but I can tell you what I’m really RUBBISH at, if that’s any help?”

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A healthy attitude?

Remember youth? Remember when you could do all sorts of terrible things to your body – like staying up late, never eating vegetables, avoiding water like the plague, frying yourself to a crisp in the sun, eating fatty, salty foods, drinking too much alcohol or choofing through a whole packet of fags in one night? Remember when your body just repaired itself and moved on?

Well brace yourselves, fellow Baby Boomers for, as a ‘Tail Ender’ of your generation, I’m here to officially tell you “it’s all over”. But don’t fret. Its passing need not be lamented. In fact, this new phase of life offers opportunities not yet discovered or enjoyed by those of younger, healthier disposition.

Yes folks, I have now joined the ranks of those who think it’s not only acceptable but down-right socially valuable to have an illness or two to discuss with one’s friends. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder what on earth I ever talked about before I was introduced to gastroscopies, colonoscopies and any other human-orifice-oscopy you can name.

Ah, the suspense of a good heart-murmur story; the intrigue of a difficult-to-diagnose kidney malfunction; the exhilaration of a cunningly detected helicobacter virus and the heartwarming tale of successful toe-nail surgery.

Where once we discussed world affairs, the news of the day, our kids or the latest gossip around town, today my degenerating cohorts and I go straight for the ‘health update’, reliving every ache, pain or dysfunction that’s afflicted us over the past decade.

We compare and contrast; we embellish and amplify; we dissect and diagnose. In short, we have a great time ghoulishly reveling in the inevitable demise of the human organism; even if it happens to be our own organism that’s up for discussion. It’s the entertainment value that counts, after all!

Besides, they say “a problem shared is a problem halved”, although I have to admit it’s unlikely that (unless you are highly infectious at the time of discussion) even your bestest buddies are going to take on a half-share of your latest affliction; that might be stretching the friendship just a tad too far. I mean, sharing a joke, a cuppa and the general details of someone’s illness is one thing; putting your life at risk for the sake of an interesting relationship is quite another.

And so, like those who have gone before me — and behind whose backs I would snigger when they insisted on imparting every gruesome detail of their latest health woe — I too find myself subscribing to the philosophy that everybody else finds my medical emergencies as fascinating as I do. After all, I think to myself, why wouldn’t they? (I admit it’s a thought I haven’t necessarily fully explored, so it may well be flawed in some way…).

But despite my acceptance of health topics as the new dominant force in my conversational life, I do still have one bodily frontier I am not yet fully willing to discuss and that is the intricacies of someone else’s, shall we say, digestive processes (and the bi-products thereof, if you take my meaning). Yes, one day my friends and I may openly and unabashedly share every grisly aspect of our ablutions, but today is not that day and nor shall it be for a little while yet.

In the meantime, I am quite happy having a chat about any other anatomical process, surgical procedure or medication. Yours, mine or Mr Bloggs Down the Road’s. It’s only natural, this hankering to understand the physical nature of ….well …nature … and to attempt to stave off the affects of the ageing process. After all, who amongst us actually likes the idea of becoming decrepit …or worse?

And besides, with our minds starting to go as well, as we approach our twilight years, it’s probably not a bad idea to focus on something as close to home as our own bodies. God knows where our thoughts might end up if we start worrying too much about other stuff. We might forget to take our tablets … or go to the toilet!

Uh oh…..did I just say “toilet”?

Yikes, it’s started already!!

I better stop now before I say “poo!”

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A Ghostly Tale

A friend was telling me how, at a wedding in New York, he got chatting with the young woman seated beside him. He asked her what she did for a living and she said she was a ‘ghost writer’.

Imagining all kinds of ghoulish protagonists and spooky storylines, my friend was intrigued.

“So does that mean you write books about the dead?” he asked innocently. But his new friend (whom he had secretly nick-named “Casper”) enlightened him that a ‘ghost writer’ doesn’t actually write about ghosts, but writes on behalf of someone else.

“Who do you write for then?” my friend asked. Casper shook her head and drew pincered fingers across her lips in a zipper gesture.

“Can’t tell you, I’m afraid,” she said. “Ghost writers often write for quite well known authors. Naturally the authors don’t want the public to know that they are not actually writing the books and their publishers don’t care who’s actually writing them, as long as they make their squillions.”

My friend was aghast, “You mean some of our big-name, world-reknowned authors may not even be writing their own books?”

Casper, however, was giving nothing away. She explained that she gets paid a lot of money to write …. and keep her mouth shut.

“But don’t you ever get the urge to blurt out that you actually wrote so-and-so’s latest best-seller?” my friend persisted. “Or the desire to write a book under your own name?”

“Not much point, really,” Casper replied. “My name means nothing to the reading public and I can’t exactly say “Ooh, but I wrote “Blah Blah” (fabulous best-seller) for “Blah Blah” (Big Name Author) can I? It would rather jeopardise my ghostly status … and my bank balance.”

My friend took her point but shook his head in bewilderment at why someone would be willing to ‘sell’ themselves in such a way.

This story made me wonder what it would be like if people in other industries decided to have ‘ghost workers’ to do the actual work, while they sat back and collected the money and kudos.

For instance, can you imagine the ‘ghost plumber’ sliding selflessly down the sewer to retrieve something nasty from the pipeworks then standing back, unperturbed, while the lady of the house lavishes cash, thanks and a slab of Carlton Cold on the ‘real plumber’ (who’s been watching from the safety of the back porch?) I don’t think so.

Or the ‘ghost-detective’ who risks losing life, limb (and occasionally the contents of his stomach) unearthing clues and dead bodies, only to pass all the information to the ‘real detective’ who gets all the credit … and the promotion? Doubtful.

But I guess, in reality, there are ‘ghost personnel’ in every organisation right across the world; people whose individual work is passed off as the intellect, the research, the expertise or the ‘brainchild’ of someone else. Funnily enough, it’s actually a win-win situation. After all, in the spirit of reciprocity, those whose ideas and projects are used, do get paid for their creativity and hard work. It’s how human organisations get things done.

So I guess those best-selling authors with ‘ghost writers’ tucked in their turrets are not so despicable after all. The reading public gets another guaranteed pot-boiler, the ‘ghost writer’ gets a tidy little sum and the author gets to sit on her sun-lounge collecting royalties (and she can blame someone else for any writing gaffes!)

Not that a ghost writer would necessarily be an easy scapegoat for blame, for surely she would just deny all knowledge of the matter (as per her contract) and get off Scot free, wouldn’t she?

And fair enough too. After all, there have to be some perks in being invisible!

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The Universal Marshmallow Portal

While I was chatting on the phone the other night with my Number Two Son who’s living in London, he noticed the tell-tale signs of something being scoffed at my end of the line. Perhaps it was the odd muffled “Hmphlm!” that replaced some of my responses or maybe the sound of crinkling plastic that gave me away but, either way, he was onto me.

“I’m eating marshmallows,” I confessed to the sound of his jealous groans.

“Ooooh, I could sooooo eat some marshmallows right now!,” he whined and we began discussing how great it would be if I could just stuff some marshmallows into the phone and have them pop out at the other end of the line in Shepherds Bush, London. Just imagine if we could use technology in this way, we thought.

“It would be fabulous! A kind of Marshmallow Portal” chirped Number Two, his brain evidently whirring at all the stunning technological possibilities.

“We could patent the idea and get rich!” he added.

We began extending the concept even further; taking it beyond the idea of personal gain, glitz, fame and millionaire yachts and onto the much more serious issue of world hunger (and potential Nobel Peace Prizes).

Definitely ‘do-able’, we felt, despite the fact that at least one of us (moi) is arguably THE most technologically-challenged human being to have never gigged anyone’s byte (ever!) and would be hard pressed to design a fully functioning paper-clip, let alone a portal to an alternative universe full of healthy food!

However, undeterred, we pressed on with our vision of people everywhere going on-line to order a hearty plate of roast beef, three veg and some sticky date pudding and having it morph into their laps, complete with cutlery and a nice glass of red.

The only sticking point with our portal, we conceded, could be the lack of widespread access to the laptops, modems, broadband internet and power sources required to enable our Feed the World Roast plan to work.

Yes, this may put a spanner in the works but surely, we figured, between all of the world’s computer-nerds, government organisations and the United Nations they could sort out that little glitch, couldn’t they?

Our job, we felt, was merely to come up with the idea. Implementation was clearly someone else’s baby. After all, Creativity and Practicality are uneasy bedfellows (probably because Practicality snores loudly and is a big wowser).

Anyway, it was a nice thought. Not that it helped Number Two Son much with his marshmallow craving.

Pity about that, really. It would have been nice to have solved even one person’s food craving -- even if it did mean sacrificing a couple of my marshmallows to the greater good.

But fortunately….um…. I mean……sadly …..that wasn’t to be.

(And gee, they were yummy!)

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Me and My Exclamation Mark - An Inseparable Pair!!!

Those of you who have been reading my articles for a while may have noted that I have a certain, shall we say ‘fondness’ for using exclamation marks. Well, okay, I’ll admit it’s probably a bit more than a fondness; it’s probably closer to an addiction.

In my defence, I don’t feel I can express myself properly unless I throw in the appropriate ‘feeling’. And how can I do that without incorporating my favourite piece of punctuation -- the good old exclamation mark?

When I’m telling you something funny it often ends with an exclamation mark. Ha ha! Something amazing or dramatic ends with an exclamation mark. Ooh! Aah! In fact, pretty much my whole life is punctuated with exclamation marks. New job! New book! Joined the gym! Watched the ice-skating! Read a book! Put out the garbage!

Let’s face it, I think and speak with exclamation marks hanging all over my sentences! So therefore it’s inevitable (and not unreasonable to my way of thinking) to carry this over into my written work. But unfortunately not everyone sees it this way; in particular editing-type people.

I was reminded of this last week when I was invited to submit an article to an online debating site. It was a ‘semi-humorous’ article -- in that, while it was a little tongue in cheek, it also contained a serious message. The humorous bits were appropriately ‘exclamation marked’ to ensure that everyone got the joke.

Well, anyway, before it went to print the Editor asked if I minded if she ‘pruned’ some of my exclamation marks and I said okay.

Well, she pruned alright! Hacked to death might be a better term. If I was a rose bush I would have been reduced to a gnarly stork for, by the time she’d finished there was no trace of my personality, let alone any inference of humour. Naturally this resulted in some less than happy ‘comments’ when the debate got going.

“Is she joking?” squawked one disgruntled reader.

“Well ….yes, actually” I wanted to write back, but I had to forgive ‘Angry from Parkville’ for how was he to know I was taking the Mickey when there was no happy little exclamation mark to highlight my hilarity?

As I re-read the article (post hack) I could quite see how people had taken some of it the wrong way. Without my exclamation marks, I certainly sounded more like a smug smart alec than a good-natured observer of human nature who was having a friendly poke at the Baby Boomer generation (to which, I hasten to add, I belong).

I later found that the article in question had not only been aired here in Australia, but had found its way onto a Japanese website where they appear to have translated my words into Japanese and then back again in a very amusing fashion. It had also ended up on a website in North Carolina, USA. (I would normally have included an exclamation mark here, but I'm trying to abstain).

I just hope my international readers managed to find something funny about the article even without its exclamation marks. Otherwise I can see the headlines now:

“Australian article bores entire state of North Carolina to death! It’s just not funny,” survivors say.

Well anyway, in acknowledgement of my addiction to the humble Exclamation Mark I am now considering seeking out a 12 Step “Punctuators Anonymous” program. Can you just see me introducing myself at my first session?

“Hi, I’m Catherine! I’m a serial punctuator and I just love using exclamation marks!!!”

(I sure hope they can help!!!!!!!!!)

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Why Golf can Help Your Kids be Nice People

As I ambled around the golf course this morning, it occurred to me that golf is a bit of a metaphor for life.

Sometimes things go your way. You get that nice little ‘cracking’ sound as you wallop your dreams from the tee right onto the fairway of life and you feel as if you’re cruising. Life is good!

Other times you whack a dodgy into the rough and find yourself having to chip around obstacles and problems.

Then there are the occasions when you land in a full-on bunker. Doesn’t matter what you do, you can’t seem to dig your way out.

Taking this ‘life/golf’ idea even further, I got to thinking that perhaps all children should be taught how to play golf.

Why? Because in golf you are expected to honour rules and etiquette – concepts every child needs to learn.

For example, when a player steps up to the tee, everyone else is expected to keep still and shut up while they take their shot. Now that’s a good lesson in manners.

And you have to take turns in golf, meaning that sharing, waiting and being patient are ….um … par for the course (if you will pardon my pun!).

If you chop out a divot on a golf course, you are expected to repair it.

That’s about respecting your environment and being considerate of other’s who use the space.

If you’re playing slowly and another group of players is hard on your heels, it’s etiquette to offer to let them ‘play through’ so as to not hold up their game. That’s being thoughtful.

When a player does a rubbish shot, it’s considered inappropriate to laugh or mock them -- tempting as this might be! That’s a lesson in kindness and learning to control one’s impulses. (In any case, if you’re anything like me, chances are you will soon do a rubbish shot yourself!)

When you finish using each club, it’s good form to wipe it clean before replacing it in your bag. That’s a lesson in taking care of one’s own things.
Some golf links have special rules about attire, so this is a lesson in caring about how you present yourself.

Bad language on a golf course is discouraged, so our budding Greg Normans would be learning to watch their ‘p’s and ‘qs’ (and ‘f’s) and use appropriate language.
And finally, the nineteenth hole is off limits for juniors so they won’t be associating alcohol with sport …. or learning to tell big fibs about how many birdies, eagles, albatrosses they almost got.

There, that’s it. One game of golf and our kids would have learned the basics of how to behave in the game of life!

Well, now I’ve got the next generation sorted, I wonder if I can get some of those naughty adult players to start toeing the line?

What’s that? A new rule, you say? All do-gooding Kitchen Philosophers are banned from the local course?

Hmph!

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Fit Busting

Every so often I get the urge to start taking better care of myself, get fit and shift those stubborn extra kilos. This urge usually coincides with some forthcoming social event, significant birthday (usually one with an ‘0’ attached) or some nasty little health issue. Any of these can force my biological alarm clock to start pealing furiously.

“Wake up! Wake up!” it cries desperately. “You’re running out of time to get the body of Jennifer Hawkins, the skin of Halle Berry and the liver of Mother Theresa.”

Of course I scoff at the silly little clock’s pathetic dream of me ever being able to sculpt my five foot nothing, rather well-covered frame into supermodel (or supernun!) status, but you’ve gotta give it credit for trying.

And so, in an effort to appease the little chap and to give myself an outside chance of being Fab, Fit and Fifty (yes, that was the ‘0’ I was referring to!) I have made a few lifestyle changes and even joined a gym. This is only the second time ever in my life that I have had an association with a gym. The first time was recorded in this column some time ago, a portion of which I will quote here as a reminder:

“If I sound surprised … it’s because it has taken me the better part of half a century to ever step inside a gymnasium and, frankly, I am shocked. Not only by the sight of my body (in all its alarming rotundity) being reflected ninety-fold around the mirrored walls, but also by the myriad of people who willingly offer up their time and their bodies to the Gruelling Gym Gods.”

This second visit has me reeling further. An assessment of my weight, height, body mass index, yada yada yada revealed that I am officially in the ‘obese’ category.

I was horrified! Thankfully (no doubt in a bid to ward off any membership-terminating tanties on my part) my instructor was quick to point that I had only just squeezed over the ‘obesity’ line and that it was probably due to that litre of damn water I had drunk on the day. That made me feel a bit better.

And so this past week I have been pumping iron, marching up hills on a walking machine, rowing my way across what feels like the Pacific, flaying about like some weird, unco moon-child on a machine called an ‘Elliptical’, contorting my reluctant ‘abs’ into crunches and cycling til my butt hurt.

But have the kilos started to shift? Not on your Nelly! Each day I jump eagerly on the scales expecting some miraculous diving of the numbers, but nah. To my annoyance, they just keep getting higher instead of lower.

“Muscle weighs more than fat,” offered one friend, trying to comfort me but I seriously doubt that five sessions at the gym would’ve made any muscle yet.

“It’s probably just fluid,” says someone else kindly.

I have my own theory. My fat cells are perfectly happy where they are. They like me. And it’s going to take more than a bit of heart thumping to bump them off. Well, I’ve got news for them. This time I’m serious!

And just to prove it, I’m going to go out there again today and huff and puff and sweat til my corpuscles hurt.

But not until I’ve had a nice cup of tea ….oh, and wasn’t there a bit of left over chocolate cake in the pantry?....mmmm

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